I can’t lie you’re the best person ever. Except I need an aspirin for my eyeball and some apple juice. And I think that’s a totally legitimate pet peeve.
I’m guessing you didn’t get the e-mail: long, flowing and with a flower print. It was elegance. We walk by her every morning before the traffic accident. It’s a good thing he speaks Chinese like a pixie because getting it back is difficult. This was the year Tom became Thomas (w/a segue via Thom) and Andy became Andrew. Are they new friends if I call them by their new names?
It was also the year his boyfriend turned 40 eating sushi. I remember it well (ha!). We sat front row and center at the Kabuki. The underwater dragon was really cool; sleek, black, and enormous, it would shoot up out of the water and straight into the air, head-first, do a somersault and then slither back down into the water without even a splash, making other people’s stress worth living for.
Every word is death. Therefore the anger of eye is also of voice of brain of arm of skin of ever more sensitive to touch to lift losing tranquillity caress.
I am list. Me. This. List. Therefore. Let’s.
back up. To Friday night the Equinox spinning 360° view of the Bay/Financial District at Hyatt Embarcadero white wine cheeses olives. Then dancing at.
“A doctor dressed as Captain America was arrested after groping a woman at a bar and fighting with her boyfriend, authorities said.”
Then dancing at Café got e-mail kid from Pixar on Saturday rainy like last week and yesterday drove to Berkeley bought $92 used books. $92 used. $92 death. All death.
Please don’t tell me I am doing something new here. I’m not trying to be complicated. It’s just
We these poems. for Vertigo presentation. And these again. just we on the fire and. Also together. these a notwithstanding. And also. just watched and bitched. And recently. island and postcard. And hummingbird. these we island postcard. And weakly. “but something besides death?”
Forget importance. Forget story. Forget heroic facsimile, relevant reference.
Reevaluate fantasy.
Today’s flower, the tulip, and gender ineffability. Forget haze, sky (related to haze), and island. Forget words con densed to fit into a dictionary.
Exist. I drive a lot to the house I grew up in. When I compare my childhood I get confused. I remember something carved into a sycamore tree. I remember we had a terrific Saturday. I remember I had scary thoughts I didn’t want to have and I felt energized. I read a book. Angelo moved to New Jersey. But. (All hail forget!)
I can take this any direction I want even if it is awful or hurts. The apricot and the carrot cake are particularly good. Scratch this out. Experimentation (like fantasy) is always allowed. Things blow up that way.
Love is not shutting up. Don’t take that the way I intended. You’d get a better feel if this were not so short. A better feeling. Coffee’s brewing. The characters in the television cuddled on the couch I am drawn to. To which I am drawn. Are drawn, too. I wasn’t trying to be funny. They are Heroes like comic book superheroes they do things I get excited about. I tune in. My love is not shutting up driving around watching sunrise. Nor breakfast hikes. Nor all snowy (on ground) with tame deer right on the trail about six total including one buck. Nap. Then movies. Love is not disap- I always enjoy our discussions so nice a friend. The drive back and then my boyfriend looks into a mountain. Sure septic tanks, too. Two big queen beds. Two big beds for two big queens. I’m not trying to. Too much anyway. A kitchenette with a microwave iced over in the middle of the woods. I hope we see a bear. Holding my hand. My problem is I am not okay with too much love. Too much love is not enough. If we see a bear I will be fulfilled. Too much love is never enough. My problem is I am not okay with too much love. Not okay with too much love. These are my problems. I come home from work and I collapse.
Something a little longer. That’s cool. I am up at the top of the hill sitting at this desk outside inside. The birds in me deal with the DMV they like that.
(Don’t capitalize, italicize!)
I am sitting here. The Nob Hill crones (now don’t be harsh) walk their dogs. I like the dogs and the crones they aren’t really crones. Love of crones.
He is markedly flying out, flying into me. We make a delusional excursion. I forward this along in hopes my experiences watching porn writing poems at Yosemite View Lodge in El Portal. I’m so forward
reading this poem and writing one at the same time with the window open to silence. I got my registration before the flick. I thought I saw him. But it wasn’t him.
She has some sort of infection that hasn’t been ascertained. I’m not talking about you. Cheers.
Sitting at a joint on the edge of Chinatown called Uncle Vito’s. Sour mood. Which I’m going to try to adjust by going ahead to Nathaniel Dorsky’s trio at SFAI.
Walnut prawns and chicken fried rice. Very loud bird. Twitters and chirps. Deadpan aircraft noises. Ziplock reusable container, microwave safe, dishwasher safe, patent pending (a sorry excuse for creativity).
Prell shampoo!
I’ll just fill my days and fill my nights with the Joe Brainard exhibit.
Here I am again, Shakespeare Garden. The birds listening to Ani DiFranco on such a pleasant day. Chirp being the inappropriate word; it doesn’t sound right. Then there was the poem I wrote. It was a nice poem in three parts. Dusk approaches. The elevator kicks in. The concept of bi- location. I am there and I am also here next to this green bag from Tiffany. In it, a bottle of champagne and a small treasure. Fred Asparagus dips Ginger into the Sea of Mustard.
the new wrinkles on the backs of my hands shaking, coming home from dancing. not understanding kitchen from dining room. “but I know you dance I read your poems!” January does go on louder than expected. my favorite waiterfetish smiles and says hello from a ways away. he is quick to differentiate “straight” from “not straight.” the sun! he might come down Prez weekend and we could gallyvant off to Yosemite or something. work work work! a note from Diane this morning a fantasy/critical reading of a poem I mailed her made me laugh hard and happy. dancing. a clove of garlic discovered in the back corner of the bread shelf behind the moldy bread. the yellow teapot upside down in the dish drain. a cool breeze through the kitchen window. the sun. the taxi stopping a couple blocks early and I didn’t know where I was.
Exes. Mine was a shih tzu in a dream last night. But first he bought rockets. We’d been to the moon a couple of times already. It frightened me to do so. But he wanted to go again. So he gets in his car and I get in mine. And soon the ambulances pass us by and soon again I’ve come upon a massively devastating pile-up! I get out and look for his car. It’s nowhere to be seen. Dead bodies are surely in each smoking vehicle. The pine trees catch fire. I can’t help anyone. I’m chickenshit just like he always said. I get back in my car and drive backwards, turn off at another road, find his car parked at his house. He’s asleep. The new rocket’s in his backyard. He’s a shar pei, asleep, face down, arms and legs out, flaps of wrinkled skin going the various ways of gravity. The dream ends somewhere. I’m home by 2:30 after crying on Divisadero with Nina Simone in my ears
Birds flying high you know how I feel Sun in the sky you know how I feel...
Clearer now, having closed the windows, reading the same book from seven ages ago. I put on the headphones and go to town.
Pepper, sage and fennel. The Fennelonians. I’ve been reading too much. This leaves me sad while eating tofu. Avidly, too.
Her only stance is abortion. I'm never okay with a dunderhead for president. Changed my mind. The radiation begins soon.
His lips shake when he lifts his bowl. That’s what happens.
“Funky roast nasty rat.” A cute guy in a wheelchair told me I asked for it. The plum trees are in bloom all along Lyon Street. Heard from behind me, “I didn’t realize it was two words. Cast. Away.” Very serious-like.
Fennelicious.
My lungs hurt. I will look into potential gateways. Ginger has a new computer so she tells me how the farm has got to go. I’m working on the fourth dimension. Getting there. Slowly.
at lunch a twist of the tongue (gonute) and then we walk the drizzle down Sacramento in which we trust (view 125%) reading Jack’s poems 1:15am after Ativan nap (7 hrs)..
it is a she we see in brevity
“Trent Reznor & Prince should definitely do an album together”
memories of the dead hawk
“Cowboys” right now
in this bogus California
my favorite waiter is here and also a glimpse (pseglim) from Suzy wherever she may be
take a short breath put down your blue and uncomfortable shoes fold into the power crisis
he doused her with a flea dose
hey we need a mop I tweazed your FCUK shirt up from behind the washers with two brooms (it was the first one bitten from an apple)
Half here. Billfold on tablecloth. A bowl of pink mums. Salt and pepper for a glass of water.
The sea just filled up with dirt. My poems did this to me.
The talking shadows of two men in silhouette.
They say: “We posted better than expected profit in the first quarter” “Helping lift net income to $4.8 billion.” and “The Dow closed above 12,800 for the first time.”
(They don’t say:) “The sun were the sun” —Debussy, Rachmaninoff, and Berlioz
Years ago, just like it was yesterday, I caught a homeless man jerking off in front of the Erotic Fantasy. This meant that my soul would never find its way back home again. You’d want the rest of the story, but it gets interrupted, like most things. Life is complicated like that. So I keep walking, looking in at the young motorcycles and parachutes. Then, I spot a bird. It is ever so slowly flying in from a great distance until it wish fully scoops me up and carries me away to Shambhala. It’s loud here, it makes me drunk. This, another never-ending story with quite a lot of dust and sadness exacerbated by the stormy weather. Please come. It was only yesterday I was taken up, gently, by your cool metallic talons.
My New Year’s resolution. Fills to capacity. He wouldn’t know a massacre if he saw one. This cubicle in 1977. Watching The Graduate. To the symphony. On the toilet. Looking at the calves. Wondering “Who invented this?” Truth in advertising. Never having been to Venice. Watching the fireworks from Treasure Island. Six years without a retreat. Paris at 40. My heart transplant. Sometimes it comes too quickly.
